


The Phoenix

by Raletha



Category: Gundam
Genre: Canon Related, F/M, Psychological Drama, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raletha/pseuds/Raletha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the Second Eve War, Dorothy wants to remind Zechs of some things.  Circa 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arabian Princess](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Arabian+Princess).



> Written for her request on the livejournal community, fic_on_demand.

"I knew you were alive," she said, torso curved to rest her shoulder against the door jamb. His office door was open and his office one of the few still occupied after work hours on this winter Friday. It was the day after Christmas: Boxing Day. Few had celebrated the birth of Christ yesterday; they had been too much in shock from the battle in Brussels. That battle, like the previous year's Christmas Eve battle, purported to be the end of war.

"Did you?" he replied eventually, amused in the dark. He was in his office, yes, but the only light in the room was what came in from the corridor. Dorothy's silhouette blocked much of it.

"Of course," she said. "They called you the Lightning Count, but truly, you are more of a Phoenix. War cannot kill Zechs Merquise." No, war had created Zechs Merquise, and he, in turn, fed its dogs. War was not over, for it sat here, in this room, in the dark, chuckling a growl of a laugh -- a laugh which held no mirth, only self-loathing and restrained violence.

She loved it, that dangerous rumble from this dangerous man.

"You're wrong," he said. "Zechs Merquise is dead."

"You look alive enough to me," she mocked, gently, for she knew the ego of this man did not bear mocking well.

"Do I, Dorothy?" He sat up, light casting his face in high contrast: white flesh and black shadow. Whiter than his flesh, his hair hung in his face, casting inky stripes over his eyes and cheeks. Something about his face did resemble death, or reflected some great intimacy with mortality. It was a treacherous path between life and death, hope and despair, sanity and insanity that this man followed, and he followed it with more focus and less fear than anyone who yet lived. And he _was_ alive. She had seen him fight; he had been nothing but vital.

She tossed her hair and tilted her chin, resolute. "Dead men do not fight," she said.

She took a step closer, "Dead men do not feel passion."

And closer. She reached for him as she spoke. "Dead men do not -- "

He closed his hand around her wrist, squeezing vice like. But it was a warm vice of flesh and bone.

It hurt, and Dorothy smiled. "Dead men do not feel so warm."

Zechs glared at her, but she saw a glimmer of heat behind his frigid gaze, of the passion and danger she loved.

"You were magnificent," she said, hearing in her own voice her lack of breath. "You all were, but you most all, fighting in _his_ Tallgeese. You were the phantom of righteousness two-fold. Him and you. You both lived that day, Zechs -- "

"Don't call me that."

"But he is dead once more, and the Lightning Count still breathes, can still fight."

"I am no one, Dorothy. Just a man -- a tired man." And for a moment he sounded it.

Dorothy knew better. "Never _just_ anything, Count."

"I like that name even less."

"Then what shall I call you?"

"If you must," he said, "call me Wind. I put out fires now."

Dorothy laughed. It was too perfect, and he didn't even realise. "No," she said, "wind inflames fires. You are no extinguisher of fire, you create it. It's what you've done your whole life. Burn through the corruption of humanity with the passion of your heart."

"Why are you here?" He sounded genuinely curious now, though the weariness remained.

"To fan your flames," she said, easing her wrist from his grip. "To let you see yourself as I do. To see you as he did. And to remind you." She leaned down over him; her hair fell loose over his chest.

"Remind me of what?" His fingers closed around a few strands of hair and twisted, hers and his together.

"Remind you that you are not dead, Milliardo." Then she kissed him.

  


**the end**


End file.
